Blog Archives

Urban Tree, by Guy Fletcher

30/10/2017

Urban tree you are splendid
with blood-red and golden leaves
illuminated by the rare autumn sun.
Some of your leaves have already fallen,
raindrops shining like jewels upon them.
I wonder at you as a soft wind blows
and yet you are invisible to those

on mobiles or with pavement eyes.
But then someone takes your photograph
for you're at your very best before
storms rip up beautiful colours from branches.
Yes, urban tree you are splendid now
for a while taking my troubles away
on this calm, azure late October day.

Whispering Gallery, by Guy Fletcher

23/10/2017

I have struggled up the 257 steps
to the famous Whispering Gallery of St. Paul's
and sit, exhausted and reflective.
Disembodied voices over the centuries
have delighted visitors with this strange phenomena
so far above the crowds like ants below,
perhaps their whispering ghosts still haunt now.

A beautiful young woman came here to escape
from the stresses of London life
but jumped to her death bringing a tragic fame.
The sweet sound of organ music entrances
in Sir Christopher Wren's masterpiece.
I peer at such grandeur from way up high
as angels drift down...from the endless sky.

Barren Land, by Norma Freeman

21/10/2017

Those were the days of lightning and rum
We’d sneak to the cliffs where the smugglers had come
Watch them secure their contraband
That would support the people in that barren land

Some claimed their actions were a felony
That didn’t mean much to you or me
For without it, children like us would starve
Never to realize the life they’d carve

Now we are gone from that treacherous cove
Smuggling no longer provides a treasure trove
The footsteps we left in the meager sand
Disappeared with the storms in that barren land

We left and went our separate ways
Chose to forget those lean, hard days
But a bond is forged when you share a fight
And I still think of you in the dark of night

Two Old Sepia Photographs, by Fliss Zakaszewska

18/10/2017

Two old sepia photographs, hanging on the wall.
Four little people, sitting still, so sweet and very small.
Three little girls and one small boy with a ringlet in his hair
Edwardian dresses, sweetest smiles and a dulcet, graceful air…

They are long gone who sit and watch, forever on that wall.
They travelled far, they fought in wars, they all grew proud and tall
They married and had children, and it’s us who carry on
As the generations roll on by; night followed by day’s morn.

I remember them as people who walked and talked in life
Who dealt with life’s small struggles as well as loss and strife
But if my sons and grandson even glance up there at all
Felix, Biddy, Peta Dodie are just children on a wall.

Awaiting Ophelia, by Guy Fletcher

17/10/2017

There's a sinister darkness this morning,
restless leaves chase each other like kids at play
then a transient red sun peers through
thin grey clouds as if an alien planet
as October birds sing and a squirrel scurries up a tree.
Ophelia will soon take to the stage
partly diminished but roaring with rage

but my eyes are glued to the hot red ball
appearing a similar size to a full moon
as clouds ghost across its mighty surface.
The trees hiss with more urgency
telling their neighbours the winds will be fierce.
A bin is blown over and then I stare
at a plastic bag dancing in the air.

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, by Ian Fletcher

3/10/2017

At the age of sixty-four
nothing matters to me
in this world anymore
a man with no faith
in God nor humanity.
Though I fear not death
I dread mere oblivion
and will not fade away
into decrepit old age.
Thus I take up arms
against my fate as
like a god I tower
over the scene beneath
in absolute control
of all that I survey
ready to unleash
my pitiless rain.

I shoot out the pane
and take aim and fire
again, again and again
spewing my bullets
into the crowd below
watching in ecstasy
as they scream and fall.
The police are here
but they are too late
for I am going out
in a blaze of glory
blowing out my brains
to finish my story
ensuring my name
will be remembered
for a thousand years.

Return to Coryton Cove, by Guy Fletcher

2/10/2017

I ventured to the red rocks many years ago
when my stride was so much longer,
The turquoise sea is restless today,
breeze blowing gloom from my soul
for I've always adored this coast.
It is high tide and waves crash over the wall
and from solemn clouds rain begins to fall

yet the moody scene has a beauty of its own.
There's a hole in the rock van Gogh
would have loved to paint in his inimitable way.
I drink tea at the new café
in the rain for the seats are outside
but Coryton Cove is not all it seems,
soaking sleeping bags showing broken dreams

and boats in the harbour with rotting timber.
However, children in wet suits surf and laugh
watched by the seagulls which guard
the causeway, now mostly submerged.
The beach huts are locked bar one
where an ageing man and dog can be found
as I listen to the sea's rhythmic sound.